


Eyeballs and Beer

by Freebirdflying



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ASBO - Freeform, Acceptance, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Bars and Pubs, Beer, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eyeballs, Fear of Homophobia, Friendship, John Plays Rugby, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Male Friendship, Mycroft Holmes Being Annoying, Mycroft being nice, Mycroft's Meddling, No Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 11:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10463817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebirdflying/pseuds/Freebirdflying
Summary: John and Sherlock have been together for over a year now, and life is as insane as it always is when you live with someone who brings home eyeballs.  John has a night out at the pub with old friends from uni, and Mycroft does something...kind.  In the most irritating way possible.





	

With the optimism of youth, the boys on John’s rugby team in Uni assumed they would always stay close: mates meeting at a pub to relive glory days of tackling and scoring and winning and mud, at least a few times a year. But life is never so simple, and as the teammates went on to medical school, internships, law school, the army, office cubicles, construction sites, board meetings, marriages, divorces, children’s piano recitals...somehow those reunions never happened. Occasionally two or three might find themselves in the same city for long enough to grab a pint, but gradually most realised they no longer even had a current phone number to contact most of the others, and that the years of camaraderie on the field were becoming more and more distant memories.

So it took John Watson by surprise when, nearly twenty years on, he received an email from Paul, the former openside flanker. He had just clicked to open it when he was distracted from his seat at the desk in his sitting room at 221B Baker Street by a howl of annoyance from the kitchen, followed by a cacophony of pot lids hitting the floor, followed by an even louder and more aggrieved howl. After years of being the flatmate, friend, caregiver, and _finally, finally_ , (so much pain, over so many years, from being separated from each other, how could he ever leave the one person he truly trusted, who had sacrificed for him over and over, who brought colour and purpose to his life--he’d finally allowed love to overpower all of his self-doubt and insistence on heterosexuality) lover, John had learned to distinguish the frequent and various howls and screeches and shouts of Sherlock Holmes. 

Some howls were meaningless noises made out of boredom, some were frustration with missing evidence or an experiment gone wrong, and some were an invitation to grab popcorn and enjoy the show as Sherlock’s drama queen side came out in a tantrum as only he could throw (“I am _not_ a drama queen. I am merely expressing the natural response that _anyone_ who is not an _idiot_ should have to this debacle!”, “Oh yes you are. The biggest drama queen I’ve ever seen.”). This howl was one quarter experiment-frustration and three quarters pain, so John left his email forgotten as he wandered into the kitchen to see if his medical degree would need to be put into use. 

Sherlock managed to look as dashing as always in his tailored trousers and crisp button-up, despite his lightly sweating face and bare feet (and somehow his perfectly shaped bare feet only added to his elegance, damn him). That is until he stuck his left index finger into his mouth and started hopping in dizzy circles on one foot. 

“Christ, Sherlock, what _is_ this mess?” 

Sherlock paused in his painful dance to shoot John a look that clearly meant “ _Obvious_ , John, you are not _blind_.” 

As Sherlock resumed his previously scheduled moaning and wincing and flailing, John took in the two pots on the stove, the closest of which was now knocked on its side, still dripping boiling water (please let it just be water and not some floor-destroying acid...). The lid and a steaming tray were on the floor, and rolling merrily away in every direction from the hastily dropped steaming tray were...eyeballs. 

“ _Microwaving_ eyeballs wasn’t bad enough? What, are you _steaming_ them?? I fail to see how this is ever going to be relevant to crime-solving unless we finally get a case in a _sauna_ …”

“John!” Sherlock finally removed his injured finger from his mouth long enough to moan. “This experiment could have _important applications_ , surely you can understand that I…” 

“Oh, come here. Stop hopping! Let me see.” 

An impressive blister was already rising on the proffered finger, and John drug Sherlock over to stick in under cool water from the tap as a better alternative to saliva. Sherlock sighed in relief, and then turned his attention to his non-hopping foot. 

“Jooooohn,” he moaned piteously, “the lid fell on my foot. I think I broke a toe!” 

John gave his ridiculous flatmate an affectionate but long-suffering smile and a quick kiss on the nose before obediently kneeling, carefully avoiding the puddle of steamy water, and pulled Sherlock’s foot onto his lap. After a quick examination he announced, “Nope, nothing broken. But you are going to have a massive bruise for a few days. I don’t suppose you own any flip-flops?” He chuckled to himself at the look of derision this earned him. 

In short order he had a pouting Sherlock installed on the couch, with a bag of frozen peas draped over the bruised foot and an ice lolly held to the blistered finger. Turning back to the kitchen, he quickly toweled up the spilled water, chased down and binned several eyeballs, and righted the tilting pot. Though thankful the injuries weren’t serious, he loved being able to take care of Sherlock. He aimed a rather soppy smile at his stroppy detective boyfriend on the couch. He loved to feel needed, and when Sherlock gave him that grateful, adoring look…

His affectionate musings came to an abrupt and horrifying end as he felt and heard a sickening squelch under his foot. He paused a moment, dreading to look. Apparently he had missed an eyeball in his roundup, and it was now goo under his foot. He let out a disgusted squawk and started swearing. Thank god he was wearing shoes. He toed off the defiled shoe and stomped off to the bathroom (carefully, watching for any other escaped organs in his path), pausing only to glare furiously at Sherlock, who _dared_ to _giggle_ at his misfortune. After several sulky minutes of washing congealing vitreous humour from the treads of his shoe, he scowled his way through the sitting room to resume his place at his laptop, but was drug down onto the couch for a conciliatory snog. 

Just as the affectionate snogging began to restore his previous good humour, he became aware of a strange smell permeating the flat, and it suddenly occurred to him that there had been _two_ pots on the stove…

“Sherlock! It wasn’t enough to steam _eyeballs_?? What is this, a smorgasbord? A buffet for zombies? Or is this your version of cleaning out the fridge??” He shut off the hob under the now-dry pot and surveyed the contents of the steaming tray: two fingers, an ear, half a kidney, is that a _tongue_ …

By the time he got back to his laptop and read the e-mail from Paul inviting any of his old teammates to meet up for a Saturday night at the pub, he was quite ready for an evening out of the house and a nice pint. 

*****  
To: john.h.watson@gmail.com  
From: paulierob97@yahoo.com.uk  
Cc: marcandsusan@live.com; thevincent5@yahoo.com; fre…

Heeey, mates! This is Paul Robson, your old flanker! I hope you still remember me, it’s been so long, ha ha! 

I’ll be in London for work for a couple of weeks starting next week, and I’ve got a weekend in the middle there free! If anyone’s around, let’s meet up for a beer! I googled and The Rope and Rabbit pub is near my hotel, but if any of you locals have a recommendation, I’m all for it. As long as they serve Guinness, ha ha! Let’s do Saturday, April 8, around 7 at whatever pub the locals decide on? I’ll be free all afternoon if anyone wants to meet for dinner before that, too! 

I had a time getting this many emails, and I know I’m missing some people so forward this to anyone whose info you have! And let me know if you can come out to play! ;) 

***** 

Almost unbelievably, in the flurry of email responses, _eight_ rugby mates were actually in London or close enough to make the trip in on short notice. John was excited about catching up with the guys, but his enthusiasm was tempered with a bit of anxiety--how could he explain his life now, how could he explain _Sherlock_? So far, nearly everyone who knew of their relationship was happy for them--most people in their lives had been in their lives through it all, through the crazy-flatmates-vs.-Moriarty era, Sherlock’s death, John’s grief, Sherlock's return, Mary’s secrets, Sherlock’s near death (again), the showdown when Mary’s past caught up with her, understood the kind of connection the hell they’d been through had forged between the two men, and were just grateful they had survived it all still with the capacity to love and to laugh, and that they obviously found comfort in each other. But he’d never had to explain Sherlock or the mad life they shared to anyone from...before. To anyone who didn’t already know Sherlock. 

By the time the Saturday night in question rolled around, John had put quite a lot of thought into how his old friends would react when they found out he was in a relationship with another man, since they would all remember his flirtatious-with-the-ladies reputation. He wasn’t really that worried about outright hostility; it was 2017, after all, and any sane person knew it just wasn’t done to make homophobic slurs, especially when you weren’t sure of your audience--but then again, they’d probably assume it was an all-straight, macho-rugby-player audience (not that that made saying rude things right, but the beer might remove some filters). Surely they were all sufficiently modern-minded enough to not start a brawl or ask him to leave, but there could be plenty of more subtle reactions that would lead to the same end: the uncomfortable silences, the assumption that he no longer shared their interests in sports and beer, the looking back mentally to wonder if he’d ever looked at _them_ with lust, the avoidance of treating him with the usual banter lest it come across as _flirting_ since he _liked blokes_ (nevermind that it wasn’t “blokes”, plural, just this one rather unusual one). Or maybe they would react with hostility. He wanted to think the best of them all, but it had been years since he’d seen some of them; _he’d_ certainly changed a lot in that time. 

_Whatever happens, happens. I’m not going to hide anything. After all, so what if they give me a hard time about it? It’s not like I see these blokes that often, anyhow. Easy to avoid them in the future. I’m not ashamed; I’m proud he’s mine--just look at him! Okay, get it together, Watson. In you go. Right._

John was a bit surprised to be the second to arrive, after Paul, who had staked out a large corner booth. 

“Oi, Watson! Over here!” Paul scrambled out from the back of the booth where he’d been holding court. By the time they went through the handshake-turned-into-a-back-slap-half-hug greeting of old mates, Lee and Kevin had made a noisy entrance. 

John, being both early to arrive and, between Afghanistan and years of criminals, preferring to have his back to the wall, was crammed into the middle of the booth. The waitress had barely set down the first pint for Tony, the last to arrive (and wasn’t that typical? He’d once been shocked, two months into the semester, to find that his psychology professor still called roll at the beginning of class--he’d never in all that time shown up early enough to hear it.), when John’s phone rang. 

A quick glance: Mycroft. _Really? He knows where I’m at. I mentioned it when he was at the flat waving case files in Sherlock’s face on Thursday, and a Holmes never forgets anything. Wanker._

John glanced around a bit frantically. No way to take the call privately without making three people get up and move to let him out. Besides, Mycroft’s calls were usually short and to the point. He thought about just not answering, but there was always that niggling fear: _What if Sherlock’s in trouble…_

“So sorry...I’ve got to take this…” he mumbled an apology as he scowled at his phone. “It’ll be brief, if you all don’t mind, I don’t want to make you all move…” 

“Go on then, no bother,” from Kevin, and nods from a couple of others. Kevin turned to ask Jimmy if his cute little sister was still single, but before he could open his mouth, his attention was diverted back to John’s phone call as soon as he heard the rather non-standard greeting:

 

“Fuck off, Mycroft.” 

“You know damn well where I am. Can’t I just have _one_ evening catching up with friends in a pub without interference from a Holmes? This had better be important.”

“No, I _don’t_ think we should move it up to tonight. Sherlock’s tracked his movements and he won’t be alone until 3 am at least, and probably not until tomorrow. And tomorrow night’s our best shot of catching him with as few people around as possible.”

“Well, it’s all fine for YOU to say, but I’d rather wait. Just in case it comes to...well, you know.”

John tried to remember to be discreet, as he realised that the conversation around him had lulled, and seven people were pretending not to be listening. This caution was forgotten in a fit of temper after whatever Mycroft said next.

“Last time I had to shoot someone in front of witnesses, Greg didn’t speak to me for a month!” 

“We are not your personal clean up crew whenever your precious little minions of the MI6 cock things up!”

“Okay, well maybe we _are_ your own personal clean up crew. Why do you even _have_ an MI6 if you can’t trust the damn spies? But I think this one’s gonna even the score for taking care of the ASBOs last month.”

“What do you mean, what ASBOs? The ones from when Sherlock and I got a bit..um..carried away outside the Royal Opera House…”

“Yes, yes, you were very helpful _after_ the fact--and I know you only did it so you can smirk at him and threaten to bring it up in front of your mum on the next holiday--but you were conveniently unreachable that night, considering we were there undercover on _your case_. We had to get Lestrade to pull rank on that prick of a sergeant…

“Why are you…”

“Yes, of course I liked his new tux…”

“Oh, was it Armani? You know I don’t keep up with…why are we talking about fashion when I could be drinking?

“Oh, stuff it. I’m going to have a few pints now, you’re going to fuck off.”

“Mycroft, what’s the person behind me wearing?”

“So I know which camera to flip off!” 

John swiveled, glancing behind him to find the man with the Kermit-the-frog t-shirt, and then back around, eyes searching the corners. His gaze froze on the one at the angle that would put the muppet-shirted man behind him to the viewer, and gave it a pointed grimace while lifting a middle finger in its direction. 

“Now, sod off and leave me alone. I hear Greece could use some help with its economy if you need something to interfere with tonight. 

“Oh, _really_? You know, I think that at Mummy’s birthday party next weekend I’ll just mention what happened last Wednes…” 

John didn’t finish the sentence as the phone call ended abruptly. 

“Prick.” 

He gave a last glare and huff of annoyance at the phone before sliding it back into his jacket pocket with a little more force than necessary before noticing the silence. 

“Oh, um, sorry about that. So, what about Arsenal last week?” 

Even football didn’t distract from the curious looks. John flushed slightly and looked around. To his surprise, they weren’t looking at him like he was a weirdo. They were looks of shock, yes, but mixed with awe, not derision.

“So, MI6...cases?” Rajesh asked. 

“And John-gonna-be-a-doctor-and-everyone’s-grandma-loves-me-Watson got an ASBO? What did you _do_ , man?” Jimmy added with a smirk and a laugh. 

“I was gonna tell them off for prying, but yeah, mate, now I gotta know…,” from Kevin. 

“Are we all just pretending we didn’t hear ‘ _last time_ I had to shoot someone’?” Lee tossed in, to nods of agreement from Paul and Marc.

“Oh yeah, um, my partner’s a detective, and we usually work with New Scotland Yard or take private cases, but occasionally we’ll do something for his brother, who pretty much _is_ the British Government, that’s who was on the phone. I still do locum work at a clinic to keep my hand in as a doctor, though, between cases, since I can’t work as a surgeon since getting shot in Afghanistan…” John realised he was rambling. 

“Your partner...Sherlock Holmes? I read your blog!” Tony broke in. 

“You have a blog?” 

“Yeah, he does! Crazy stuff, sounds like stuff off of Hawaii Five-O! Or Lethal Weapon!” Tony, apparently, was a fan. “I was really excited when he came back from the dead; I’m glad you’re writing again!”

“Hehe, yeah, I have a blog…”

“Came back from the dead…?” 

“Yeah, I remember all the news about that, Sherlock Holmes, the detective. Come on guys, surely you remember all that a few years back?”

“Wow, Johnny, that was you? I remember reading about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, but, well, Watson’s a fairly common name and I didn’t realise that was you. Wow, man.”

“I don’t remember any of this...what happened?”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t, you wanker. You faffed off to Philadelphia for five years.” 

“I still want to hear about the ASBO!” (John had hoped that would be forgotten.)

“And wait, when were you in Afghanistan?” 

John was trying to remember all the questions he had yet to answer when Paul stepped in. “Oi! Let the man breathe! But yeah, man, I mean, what? Sounds like you’ve done something more interesting than coach youth football. Start at the beginning, and catch us up, yeah?”

“You guys really want to…? John wasn’t used to being the centre of attention, or being the unusual one. He was usually overlooked when placed next to Sherlock’s dramatic presence. 

“Yeah, man! Hey, wait, let’s get another round real quick…” Even the flurry of activity in acquiring eight more pints didn’t distract his curious audience. John downed about half of his. 

“So...I once made the mistake of saying ‘Nothing ever happens to me,’ and the universe decided to prove me wrong,” he started. “You all knew I went to medical school. Well, after I qualified as a doctor I joined the RAMC and did three tours of duty in Afghanistan as a field surgeon…” And on he went, giving the short version of his life: getting shot, meeting Sherlock, Moriarty, Sherlock’s death and resurrection, his (short) marriage to a semi-retired assassin, her death, and now back at Baker Street with a life he loved. “...and so, now I’ve been back at Baker Street for about a year and a half. I had to clean up steamed eyeballs rolling around the kitchen floor week before last, and I had to throw out my leftover curry because _someone’s_ bag of kidneys leaked in the refrigerator _again_ , but it’s great, really.” 

“Damn.” 

“Wow, man. I had no idea.” 

“I’ve got to check out this blog.”

“So, basically, you’re a part-time James Bond.”

“Now I’m jealous. I’ve always wanted to shoot a gun. I mean, not _at_ someone, but…”

“Hey, if you want to try again on the wife thing, my sister’s still single.” 

“Oi, I saw her first! I call dibs!” 

“Haha, no, that won’t be necessary, Jimmy, I’m actually…” John was cut off before he could finish that thought.

“You left out the part about the ASBO! Come on, Johnny!” 

And there it was. He and Sherlock had been together as more-than-friends for a year now; he’d already had several goes at “coming out,” but there’d been rumours that they were shagging for years at both the Yard and at Bart's, so the announcement was generally met with rolled eyes and a mutter of “Finally…”. Well, Sgt. Carothers made a snarky remark, but a busted lip made him think twice about repeating it. And Harry’s squealing might have permanently damaged his hearing.

 _Damn Mycroft for bringing up the ASBO. Oh...wait...damn. I mentioned the ASBO myself. Well, damn Mycroft anyhow._

John smiled and rolled his eyes. What’s one more thing, on top of all the insanity he’d already told them? “So, when I referred to Sherlock as my partner earlier, I meant it both in the Starsky-and-Hutch way, but also...partners as in, we’re together. He’s my boyfriend...god, that sounds a bit juvenile.” 

After a moment of silence in which seven people stared at him and no one jumped in with a comment, John went on, “I mean...we were always closer than most mates; best friends, but still...after everything we’ve been through together, and saved each other so many times in so many ways...I just couldn’t pretend anymore. It took me a while to adjust to the idea of being in a relationship with a bloke; I still really don’t think of myself as gay, bisexual, I guess, I mean, it’s really just him... I love him, and we’re very happy together, so...yeah.” 

A couple seconds more of silence, just enough for John to open his mouth to try to say something, anything, to change the subject, but then:

“Well, Kevin, I suppose you’ll do for my sister after all. Remind me to give you her number.” 

And everyone, John included, snorted and cracked up laughing. Rajesh had tears in his eyes, and Tony nearly fell off his chair.

Once they could all breathe again, Paul said, “Well, yeah, I guess everything you’ve been through would make you close...and if you’re happy with it, hey. I never knew you were bisexual, though.”

“Neither did I, back then when we all knew each other,” John said. “I mean, I’d had passing thoughts that a bloke was attractive--and no, not any of _this_ sorry lot--,” snorts and chuckles around the table, “but I liked women just fine and there were plenty around, so I never gave it much thought. But then I met Sherlock…” 

“And Jesus, a wife like that would probably put you right off women.”

“Eh, I guess? But really, I know it looks like it what with the timing and all, but my feelings for him really aren’t just a reaction to her. I’d always been attracted to him, but I just couldn’t accept that being with him in that way was possible, mostly because I’d never dated a man before, and didn’t think he’d be interested. It was just once she was gone there was finally nothing to hide behind, nothing in the way…” John was rambling again, but he wanted it to be understood that Sherlock was the love of his life, not a consolation prize or a rebound.

“Yeah, yeah, man. I believe you. I was just taking the piss, no need for a therapy session,” Lee rolled his eyes, but followed it with his trademark slightly deranged grin to show he meant no harm. 

“So, um, I have a question, and it may be a rude question, I’m not sure what gay--would you refer to yourself as gay? Or no, bisexual?--people would consider to be too personal…”

Oh, great, John thought. Here it comes. The who-tops-who question. His cheeks started to flush a bit in anticipation of it. Honestly...it was rude. No one goes about questioning their straight friends about their favourite sexual positions. Or at least not unless they knew each other much better than uni friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. He’d been asked the question a couple of times before, but once it was a witness they were interviewing and once it was a nosy lady at the grocery store, so he’d been able to shut it down with a disdainful look and walk away...a few other times someone had started the question, but Sherlock had been present and had loudly deduced enough of their proclivities to discourage them from further curiosity. 

“...but...does this shirt and this jacket match? I mean, my wife says they’re two different colours of green, but I think…” Marc couldn’t even finish the sentence as he was laughing at all their faces. Tony nearly fell off his chair again, and after the laughter had almost died down from Marc’s fashion question, Rajesh started them off again by acting like he was going to tie Tony to the chair with his jacket sleeves. 

John grinned. “Oh god. I thought you were going to come out with the old ‘so who’s the girl in the relationship’ question.” 

“I thought he was, too!” Kevin gasped out. “I was looking around to see if there was anything handy to throw at him. And for the record, I really _don’t_ want to know who sticks what where.” 

“Hear, hear!” Paul raised his pint glass. 

“I’ll keep the details to myself then,” John smirked. “And Marc, I have no idea. They both look green to me. Maybe listen to your wife.” 

“Well, _I_ can tell you. They clash hideously. Don’t you look in the mirror before you leave the house?” Lee jumped in. 

Tony snorted. “Lee, aren’t you colour blind?” Lee threw up his hands in defeat, and they all cracked up again. 

“Nah…fucking a bloke hasn’t granted me any fashion super powers. Not for lack of trying on his part; he’s always trying to sneak new jumpers into the wardrobe, and the ones he deems most objectionable somehow “accidentally” have acid spilt on them. _He_ fits that particular stereotype, the posh git. Though not all of the other stereotypes; he’s absolute crap at interior decorating.” 

“So you can’t help me choose paint for the lounge?” Paul joked. 

“God no. You should see our flat, you’d never ask again. Let’s see...we’ve got a yellow spray paint smiley face, bullet holes, and a cluedo board pinned to the wall with a dagger in our sitting room. Oh, and a cow skull wearing headphones over the fireplace. We’re the last homosexual couple you should be asking decorating advice from. Our landlady comes up to tut at least once a week.” 

“Well, are you still man enough to order the next round?” 

“That I can still do, sure.” John waved over the waitress. Everyone was soon armed with a fresh pint. 

“And that _still_ doesn’t explain the ASBO.” Man, these guys were relentless. 

“Oh, _god_ , you’re like a dog with a bone, you tit. I shouldn’t have let Mycroft get me riled up enough to bring that up.” 

“Come on, man, or we’re all going to send you cds of show tunes for Christmas.” John found a napkin to wad up and throw at the offender. 

“All right, all right, I’ve already told you every other embarrassing detail of my life. So, we were undercover at the Royal Opera, getting close to this posh old lady, the type who’s always clutching at pearls over every imagined slight, because it turns out she’s pretty adept at clutching at pearls--and diamonds--and not just figuratively, and runs a stolen jewelry fencing operation with her two sons. They’d bitten off more than they could chew when they swiped something from the Brazilian ambassador, who was threatening to make an international incident out of it. Well, I told you Sherlock’s the one with fashion sense. He was wearing a new suit, and well, I don’t know or care who designed it or what it cost, but damn. His arse in those trousers...sorry, sorry,” he gave a cheeky grin and was met with eye rolls and fake gagging. “Well, after we got the evidence and handed her over, and then chased one of her sons all over the opera house, we were both high on adrenaline and laughing our arses off.” 

“So, you got arrested for laughing in a posh place?” Kevin joked. 

“Ha, no, let me finish, damn it. So we went out front to get a taxi, but it was late, and he looked so damn good in that suit...and there was a dark corner over around the side of the building.”

“Oh god...please don’t tell me your bare arse made the evening news…”

John glared. “AND SO I couldn’t help but give him a bit of a snog...I mean, just a snog, and yeah, it might have been a bit much for in public, but it was late, and we were in a dark spot, no kids around, so no harm, yeah?” 

“And here comes the arse on TV…” 

John ignored Marc completely this time. “Just. Snogging. Well, it turns out it was only dark in that corner because the street lamp had blinked out. And Sherlock suddenly realised he’d dropped a cuff link. And that’s why he was on his knees.” Snorts of disbelief all around. “ _I swear_. But that’s exactly when the street lamp blinked back on, and just as it did, this wanker of a constable drove by.”

“ _Christ._ John Watson.”

“I didn’t see _that_ one on the blog.” 

“I don’t know about your luck, man.” 

“Yeah...didn’t help, either, that it happened to be one of the many officers Sherlock has insulted at a crime scene at some point. He was entirely too gleeful about arresting us, and refused to believe anything we said about Sherlock just picking up the cuff link that fell off. Oh, well, not my first ASBO, probably won’t be the last. At least Sherlock’s meddlesome brother has his uses in bailing us out of the cells and dealing with ASBOs.”

“Oh, you’re digging yourself in deep, Watson. So there are other ASBOs you need to tell us about?” 

“I’ve got to learn to keep my mouth shut.” John grimaced, but his eyes were quirking with amusement. 

“Come on, don’t leave us hanging now. If you don’t have any more stories to share, I can tell you all about the nursing homes we’ve been looking into for my mother-in-law…”

“Watson! Be a mate, keep talking! I’m begging you!” interjected Rajesh with mock horror. 

John snorted at their antics, and took one for the team. “No, no, not a _lot_ of ASBOs. There was one not long after I met Sherlock; we were interviewing a graffiti artist informant and I had my back turned and didn’t see the officer coming up, and Sherlock and the kid, damn them, rabbited off and left me holding the bag of spray paint. And that was early days, before I was known to everybody at the Yard…” 

“Christ, you need to write a second blog to tell us all the stuff you don’t put in your normal blog.” 

“Ha, yeah...I’ve barely got time to keep up with the one. But anyhow, you’ve all heard my life story. Kevin, what are you up to these days, besides pining over Jimmy’s sister?” 

The rest of the evening passed quickly as the pints (a few too many) flowed and they caught up on everyone else’s jobs and kids and marriages and current favourite rugby players. They left with promises to keep in touch more often (unlikely) and to never drink quite so much again (also unlikely). 

*****

Marc’s wife was still awake when he stumbled in, editing photos on her laptop and listening to Adele while he was out. (“Not that I don’t like her...she’s a phenomenal singer, I know...but you must have listened to that album forty-seven times...today...please, Susan.”) She turned the volume down and smiled. 

“Have a nice evening, dear?”

“Mmm.” He poured himself a glass of water. 

“Any interesting gossip?” They’d met in a biology class in their second year of Uni; she had watched many a rugby match and knew most of the guys. 

“John. Fucking. Watson.” He shook his head in disbelief. 

“John Watson...wasn’t that the cute little blond guy, dated Becky Cooper for a while?” 

“Yeah...well. Damn, the mental bastard.. I’ve got to tell you. So first, after medical school, he...” 

*****

“Wait, Jimmy! Hold up!” Jimmy paused holding the open taxi door. 

“Oh, did you want to share a taxi?” he asked. 

“No, no, I’m going the opposite direction,” Kevin huffed out. He’d been running to catch Jimmy. “I didn’t get your sister’s number. I was serious about that.” 

Jimmy grinned. “Oh, god, you’re going to turn up at Christmas dinner, aren’t you. Fine, fine, here, write it down quick before this cabbie kicks me out.” 

*****

The next morning (afternoon, actually, as Sherlock pointed out), when John’s hangover subsided enough his brain could handle something other than crap telly, he replayed the evening in his head. 

He sent a quick text to Mycroft. 

_Thank you. --JW_

**Author's Note:**

> The very first piece of fanfiction I ever wrote, months ago, was the phone conversation between John and Mycroft in the pub. I finally fleshed it out and made it part of a longer fic, but I may post it in its original form as well, as this fic has evolved into being more about John’s uni friends not being awkward about him being in a homosexual relationship, when I originally intended it to be more about Mycroft being kind by being a prat. 
> 
> I’ve got a thing for reaction fics, in which John and Sherlock’s relationship goes public. I've reread [The Life to Come](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5929291) by isitandwonder and [Down the Pub with the Rugby Lads](http://archiveofourown.org/works/249730) by what_alchemy many times, and I wanted to write my own take on a similar setting. 
> 
> I do hope that nothing here is offensive to anyone who has come out themselves; as a straight person, most of my experience with homosexuality has been in fanfiction. I’m not sure how realistic it is that a group of men in their early forties would all be so accepting. 
> 
> I got some inspiration for John’s friends’ jokes from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=woiMmEwli6s) on youtube.
> 
> Also, I am American; I’ve done my best to brit-pic but if you see something I’ve missed please let me know.


End file.
